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off balance. That was all.
    Then he was looking at the scene as if he’d never seen it before. The man was writhing on the subway platform, blood gushing out of a great hole in his chest. Vince stared at him and then, as the man tried to raise his pistol again, Vince fired another bullet into him. The gun jolted in his hand and the sound deafened him.
    The man lay dead on the platform. Vince looked down, amazed at the smoke coming from the barrel of his gun. Almost repelled, he shoved the pistol into his pocket. He could feel himself shaking his head and murmuring something.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I
mean
it, I’m sorry.”
    Then the pain swept over him and he twitched violently. Looking down he saw blood running down the raincoat. He tried to lift his left arm and gasped at the fiery pain. His mouth fell open and a moan of fright filled his throat.
    “No,” he said. “No, no.”
    He looked incredulously at the man.
    “He—he
shot
me,” he said. He couldn’t believe it. The man had shot him, he’d hurt him.
    Then surprise and hurt flooded together into a hard hot lump of hate. He fumbled for his gun again. But his hand caught in the lining and he couldn’t get it out. Forgetting for a moment, he tried again to move his left hand.
    The pain almost made him faint. He felt warm blood dribbling down over his wrist and into his palm. He stumbled around on the platform, waves of darkness lapping at his feet.
    “No, no, no” he sobbed, “I don’t want to.”
    He started sharply as a screeching whistle came from the black tunnel. The station grew more clear to his gaze. He found himself looking down at the dead man in horror. What if someone saw him? They would stop him!
    “No!”
    Without thinking, he grabbed the limp right hand of the man and dragged him along the platform leaving a trail of blood behind. His own left hand hung uselessly at his side. In a moment he’d dragged the body behind a refuse box. Then he hurried out and ran to the edge of the platform. He looked down and saw two white lights approaching and heard the far-off roar of the train. He shook his head to clear the mists from his eyes.
    He looked down at his left hand. What if someone saw the blood dripping from the end of it? With his right hand, he hurriedly put the left into the raincoat pocket, gritting his teeth, his face white.
    Then he stood there waiting nervously, his stomach throbbing spasmodically. What if they saw the man? What if they stopped him from getting to Bob? What if they saw his arm? He wanted to scream. What if he had no bullets left? What if the girl had called the police? What if the guard had regained consciousness? What if he bled to death?
    He stood there shaking and whimpering in terror as the train moved past him, filling his nostrils with hot rushing air. It slowed down and the lights played on his white features.
    The train stopped and he saw, with a shock, that there were several people in the train. What if they…?
    He closed his eyes tight for a moment and tried to make his mind a blank. He heard the door open and he looked straight ahead as he moved into the fluorescent illuminated car.
    He lurched back into the hard straw seat as the train started and couldn’t stop the short cry of pain. His eyes moved nervously over the people. A man sitting across the aisle was looking at him. Vince lowered his head. He bit his lips to keep them from trembling.
    He couldn’t keep his eyes down. He had to know if anyone were looking at him. He glanced up cautiously. No one was paying attention.He took a deep, faltering breath. Then he leaned back and relaxed.
    Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. He had the raincoat and he was still on his way to kill Bob. If only—he closed his eyes and felt sweat break out on his forehead—if only the man hadn’t shot him. The fool! What right had he to shoot him—all for a miserable ten cents. He kept his eyes closed and the motion of the train began to make him sick.